


Garden Party

by romanticalgirl



Category: Southland
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can't please every one, you've got to please yourself</p>
            </blockquote>





	Garden Party

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://hackthis.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://hackthis.livejournal.com/)**hackthis** for beta and general all-around AWESOME. Who loves ya, baby?
> 
> Originally posted 7-15-09

“I’m just saying that there are things that go on at those parties.” Ben’s voice is earnest, almost a warning, like John hasn’t seen and done more than Ben’s ever fucking dreamed.

He scoffs at that and looks Ben right in the eye. They’re at some fucked up, upscale, hipster bullshit market – the kind with clerks that look at John like they’ve smelled something bad. Allegedly they’re getting some kind of cheese for Sherman’s mom. Ben tried to explain that it’s only made in the south of France and it was served at the Last Supper or some other bullshit, but John’s a Kraft Singles kind of guy, so he doesn’t trust any cheese that has the word “veins” in its description.

Why he’s going shopping with Sherman, much less going to some party that Ben’s mother is throwing is another story altogether. He’s pretty sure he got roped into it without knowing. That only happens at those moments when he’s not thinking too clearly – like when Ben’s riding him hard, hands curled against John’s stomach.

Laura used to do this shit to him too. Only in this instance it’s like Ben asked him to go to the prom with him. Now John’s got a fucking corsage (okay, a bouquet of flowers for Ben’s mom that Ben assures him is going to be completely unnecessary), an uncomfortable suit, an inappropriate hard-on, and a long night to look forward to before he can even hope to get lucky.

Ben’s nattering on about high school parties on his side of town, like John hasn’t busted up a few of those coked-up, over-privileged assholes just to watch their daddies bail them out time and again. In this instance though, Ben’s talking about sex, which makes John think about sex. More specifically, sex with Ben and, far too specifically, Ben having sex with other people. Girl people.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re hardcore.” He tries to blow it off, because he has no right to be jealous or whatever this is. He has no reason to be anything but satisfied, because it’s pretty clear that, whatever Sherman used to do, he’s doing _John_ these days. Multiple times a day to the point where John’s thinking there’s something to be said for Viagra.

Of course, what he’s supposed to do has nothing to do with his feelings and what they make him think he should do. How irrational they make him. Therapy may have helped John come to terms with being gay, but pretty much all the ‘feeling’ bullshit just complicated his life.

“You’re a veritable Urban Dictionary of dirty sex terms,” John reassures him dryly.

“I’ve done _things_.”

“Yeah?” John’s not even slightly impressed. “Before _I_ did them to you?”

“Yes.” Ben’s getting pissy, which means he’s getting feisty. He’ll come back at John with everything he’s got now, which isn’t really the best kind of attitude to have going into a family dinner party. That doesn’t mean John’s not looking forward to it. At least he’s been assured that Ben’s dad isn’t going to be around, because John’s not sure he could restrain Ben. He’s not all that sure he’d want to.

Something about the Sherman family incites John to heights of sex and violence. Maybe it’s envy. Maybe it’s just that Ben’s hotter than fuck. Maybe it’s that Ben’s dad is the biggest dick John’s met this side of is own father. “Like what?” John prods, ignoring the voice inside his head telling him to shut up.

They’re in the middle of the store and Ben’s got this red stain of a blush on the curve of his cheeks, like he’s really contemplating answering the question. John’s never sure if Ben’s going to back down in situations like this or if he’s going to suddenly start explaining his wide range of experience with snowballing while vacationing in the fucking Alps or something. As it is, Ben just grabs something from a display of items wrapped in foil and heads toward the front of the store and the cashiers.

John catches up with a couple of strides and looks at Ben’s hands, stopping with what can only be classified as pure, unadulterated horror. “What the _fuck_ is that?”

Ben looks down at his hands and the…thing in them. Given that Ben’s headed toward the cashiers, John can only assume it’s the cheese they were looking for and not some oversized piece of snot from some alien creature. It’s a grayish-greenish-whitish-clearish blob with thick blue-green veins running through it and John’s pretty sure he’s going to throw up which, given the fact that he’s given blowjobs in some of L.A.’s most disgusting club bathrooms is really saying something.

“Seriously, Sherman. What the _fuck_ is that?” A woman at the end of the aisle puts her hands over her daughter’s ears and John glares at her. “You have a problem, ma’am?” There’s danger in his tone and she moves on. He feels bad for a second, taking this…feeling out on her, but he just focuses his attention back on Ben. “Don’t tell me that your mother is going to serve that. Just looking at it might be deadly.”

Ben gives him a wry smile. “Wait until you taste it.”

“No fucking way I’m tasting that. It looks like it tastes like death.”

Ben leans in, his mouth practically brushing John’s ear. “This from the man who sticks his tongue up my ass?”

“If you think I’m doing that for the nuances of flavor, you’ve got a fuck of a lot to learn about gay sex.” He glances back down at the cheese. “Of course, if you want to tell me that cheese is going to taste as good as you sound when my tongue’s up your ass, well, then we can talk.”

“You’re impossible.”

Sherman’s still blushing and John figures they’re in a market that makes Whole Foods look like Safeway, so he brushes his fingers very lightly over Ben’s ass. “You eat that cheese, I’m not touching you for the rest of the night.”

“You’re not going to touch me anyway, remember? Too many people.”

John smirks. “You really believed me when I said that? I was planning on cornering you somewhere and showing you the sleazy, dirty side of things. Maybe in your mom’s bedroom. Just to truly defile you.” John shakes his head. “Not anymore, buddy.”

“Huh.” Ben’s tone is thoughtful, though the hint of a smile gives him away. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to find someone who will then.”

Smile or not, John is _not_ amused.

**

John’s on his fourth drink. He had a choice of champagne or whatever piss-ass microbrew is the hot thing right now, so he went from room to room until he found an actual bar and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He’s kept the bottle just in case. He hates to be unprepared in the event of an emergency and this is looking more and more like a full-scale code thirteen.

It’s decent whiskey, but not the good stuff Sherman keeps at his house. Still, it’s enough to keep this feeling that’s clawing at John’s stomach at bay. Enough to push away the hostility and low-level anxiety that’s itching beneath the surface of his skin that he can’t quite explain, that he’s not sure he wants to understand.

All he knows is that there are far too many people here, many of whom it would be in his best interest to behave in front of, so he has to seethe silently. Has to watch passively as Sherman gets hit on by every girl under the age of 40 and every woman with plastic surgery that’s supposed to make her look under 40. As far as John can tell, the only woman who _hasn’t_ hit on Ben is Ben’s mom, but John’s not laying out cash, since he wasn’t watching for about a half hour in there while on his quest for booze.

“Hey.”

John looks up from his glass at Ben’s voice, studies him intently. Ben’s lost his jacket. His sleeves are rolled up and his tie is loosened over the top open button of his shirt. John feels trussed up like a Christmas turkey and it only serves to make him more annoyed, twitchier. “What cab companies come out this way?”

“None of them. We all have chauffeurs.” Ben’s smile is mocking, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Ben obviously knows something’s wrong and he’s trying to puzzle it out, tilting his head to look at John carefully. “You know that’s the death cheese that you’re eating.”

“The fuck it is.” John looks down at what some wanna-be actor working as a waiter informed him was some fancy European cracker, but John thinks it’s just an overpriced Ritz covered in smooth, white, glossy cheese. “No shit?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“If you thought you could get away with it.” John shoves the rest of his cracker in his mouth and chews, washing it down with a finger of whiskey. “Why’m I here again?”

“I didn’t want to come alone.”

“I hate to tell you this, Sherman, but you couldn’t be alone here if you tried. Fuck, from the looks of every woman in this room, ‘coming alone’ isn’t ever going to be a problem for you.” He keeps his voice level, but he has to work at it, which pisses him off. “So, I guess you don’t need me to stick around.”

“Hey.” Ben’s voice lowers and he shakes his head, taking John by the elbow and leading him out away from the party. John keeps a tight grip on the bottle as Sherman leads him past the open French doors leading to the outside, where even more women who would likely fawn all over Sherman’s baby-face are standing around getting skin cancer and drinking champagne like Prohibition is coming back. There’s another door nearby to a back staircase.

Ben leads him up the darkened, curving stairwell, not touching John, but looking back from time to time to make sure he’s following. John does - but only because going up seems safer than going down and out those doors to face a world he doesn’t understand or much like.

Ben opens another door at the top of the stairwell and there’s a huge hallway stretched out in front of them. Another curved staircase is at the opposite end, and there’s a lounge or something out of a 1940s screwball comedy at the top. Ben steers John in the opposite direction of the stairs and down a short hall that leads to two doors. “Hey, Mr. DeMille,” John mocks and salutes Ben with the bottle, “I’m not in the mood for this.”

“Shut up, Cooper.” Ben smiles back at him, an eyebrow raised at the bottle. He opens the doors with a flourish, and inside is John’s wet dream of a rec room – a TV the size of his living room, a stereo that looks like it has more components than John has kitchen cupboards and enough speakers to rig up the fucking Hollywood Bowl.

“Jesus H. Christ.” John sets the whiskey bottle on a table and looks around as Sherman shuts the door behind them. Ben’s got a shit-eating grin that he’s not even bothering to try and hide. “If you knew this was here the entire time, why the fuck have I been suffering listening to the collected works of Barbra Streisand?”

“My mom picked that just for you.”

John’s eyebrow goes up as he turns away from the state-of-the-art electronics. He’s fairly certain he died of boredom and God’s making that shit up to him now. “Why do we watch stuff at my house on my shitty TV when you have this?”

“Well, at your house, I can break up a boring seventh inning stretch with a blowjob.” Ben moves closer to John, running his fingers lightly over John’s arm. “Here, my mom might walk in.”

John shrugs Ben’s hand away. “No offense to your mom, but I really think I need to head out.”

“Why?” Ben’s voice is cool. They both know there’s nowhere John has to be, he just doesn’t want to be _here_.

“We can’t all be the fucking chameleon you are, fitting in everywhere.” John shrugs again, and Ben watches the rise and fall of his shoulders like it’s another personal affront. “I don’t belong here - except maybe as security down by the gates.” He undoes his jacket and tugs it off, feeling like he can’t breathe like this, not anymore. He can’t help noting though that Sherman doesn’t look away. “So I’m going to head home. I’ll catch you tomorrow, all right?”

“No. It’s not all right.” Sherman grabs John’s jacket and jerks at it, pulling John forward. Their bodies collide and Ben’s all hard and hot against him. “ _I_ brought you to this party, and when you go home, you’re going home with _me_.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not your property, Sherman, and I’m sure as fuck not some dumb-ass blonde impressed by all the toys in your play room here.” He’s not his father’s son, but he still has those edges of anger, still sharp no matter how he tries to wear them down. “So you can just fuck off.”

“You are so…” Ben shoves John back and glares at him. “So…”

“So, what? _Kid_?”

“That.” Ben’s voice is angry, hurt and that same fucking wounded that guts John every time. Ben clearly doesn’t understand this any better than John himself does, and he takes it out on John with a punch that catches him off-guard, but not enough that it actually hurts him. The blow is hard enough to sting; the shock stings in a completely different way. John’s ready for the second punch though, and he grabs Sherman’s fist in his palm. It’s not hard to grab his other wrist and then hold him there, watch Sherman’s anger build and build with every breath.

It’s a subtle twist of the wrist that brings Sherman to his knees on the carpet, his breathing changing rapidly, anger sliding into something else just as quickly as it materialized. “What am I going to do with you?” John’s actually proud that Ben clocked him, that he stood up to John being a pissy little bitch. He almost smiles as he squats down, holding Ben’s wrists firmly enough that Ben can feel the pressure. Any second now he’ll start fighting back, and John will have to tighten his grip, remind Ben who’s in charge. “Look at you, down on your knees again.”

“You weren’t complaining last time,” Ben grits out, starting to struggle. John just squeezes, waiting until the pain and pulse start syncing up. Ben’s body jerks forward. John glances down from Ben’s face to watch the play and shift of muscles in Ben’s legs, the slight swell at his crotch. “Let me go, John.”

“No.” John’s voice is calmer now. He’s better here…alone with Ben. Like this he can be himself, he can breathe. When they’re alone, he can focus enough that all those emotions clamoring inside him become something just as dangerous but far less lethal, something that maybe can mutate into pure pleasure. “I don’t think I’m gonna do that.”

“John.” Ben barks it out like a command, but John just ignores him. He leans in slightly as he stands, pulling away as his grip on Sherman’s wrists cause Ben to sway forward. He winces slightly at a twinge in his back, but Sherman’s face is dangerously close to John’s erection, which takes his mind off the pain. Ben’s subtle about watching John’s cock, but he does it. John knows he’s doing it now, getting off on how much he gets to John. Right now, like this, Ben on his knees with no one around and John towering over him, with John’s crotch in his face – there’s no way Sherman’s going to look away.

John rolls his hips forward and rubs the bulging fabric hiding his cock against Ben’s lips. Ben clamps his hands into fists, tendons moving beneath John’s fingers. He doesn’t move except to open his mouth a little bit further, breath sliding along the dark material of John’s suit. “You like those girls being all over you, Ben?”

“What?” Ben looks up, blinking back the blaze of heat in his eyes.

John smiles slowly and bends down to whisper in Ben’s ear. “Did you like all those tits rubbing all over you? Do you like the smell of pussy? Did those women throwing themselves at you get you hard?” He can feel Ben flexing his arms, trying to test John’s hold. “Your dick twitch thinking about sinking into one of them?”

“What do you think?”

John laughs low and rough at the rebelliousness in Ben’s voice. “I think you’re a pussy man.” His teeth graze the lobe of Ben’s ear, catch it, and John pulls it into his mouth, sucking slowly before pulling back, his voice fanning over the wet flesh before he straightens up. “But like I said, you’re a chameleon, aren’t you?” John laughs low and hot. “Jack of All Trades. Ben of All Lays.”

“You’re being…” Ben stops and swallows hard as John growls deep in his chest. He’s not sure what the sound is…a warning, maybe, that he knows he’s irrational right now, that he doesn’t care. Ben’s head falls back slightly at the sound and his hips cant upward. “John.”

“You missing pussy?”

“ _No_.” Ben’s voice is defiant, almost angry. John’s hold tightens once more, and Ben twists in his grip, serving only to make John’s fingers slide across the flesh and catch at it, leaving marks likely to bruise.

“What are you missing then?” He kneels down in front of Sherman, his height keeping him taller still and he uses that to his advantage, pushing closer. He parts Ben’s legs and slips one knee between both of Ben’s until he can feel him hard against him. Ben’s biting his lower lip hard enough that it’s white all around his teeth. “What do you want?”

“You,” Ben gasps out, turning his head and finding John’s mouth. He’s aggressive, biting angrily at John’s mouth until John slips his tongue past Sherman’s teeth and starts fucking it, thrusting into the warm wet until Ben’s making hot noises, moaning and sucking. His hands fight at John’s hold on him even as his hips rock forward, as his cock presses into the fabric covering John’s thigh, stretched tight by his flexed muscles. He groans this time, John’s name melting through the sound.

John pulls away, releasing Ben’s wrists as he stands up. Ben shakes slightly, the lack of sensation in his arms probably a shock after the overload, the sudden absence of John’s body hard against his. “Get up.” Ben reaches for John’s hand, but John moves it out of his reach, taking a step back. “Get _up_ ,” John repeats.

Ben obeys and gets to his feet and stands there, waiting for John. His eyes are bright as they focus on John’s dick, a fucking beacon calling him home.

“Do you know what we call guys like you?” John smiles wolfishly, because he can just imagine what names Ben might be thinking of. “We call you a cocktease.”

“I don’t tease.”

“No? You think you weren’t teasing me? You think that little show you put on downstairs wasn’t for my benefit? You weren’t getting off on wondering how I’d take the sight of you getting your ass pinched by women shoving their phone numbers down your pants? You think I’m one of your little high school bullshit artists, Ben?”

Ben’s eyes are wide, his ‘no’ emphatic.

“’No’. That’s right. I’m not. I don’t play games. You want to make your girlfriend jealous, go back to the O.C. and get the fuck out of my squad car.”

He knows he’s glaring just by the look in Ben’s eyes, which is half want and half fear like he’s overstepped some sort of boundary. _This_ is why John doesn’t date guys nearly half his age. Why he doesn’t date guys who, if you squeeze them too hard, tell you they’re really straight and you’re really a nice guy, but… He’s got enough fucking games in his life with being a gay divorced cop with a drug addiction and a fucked up back. He doesn’t need this shit in his sex life.

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” Ben takes a step forward and then stops, his hands going up to his tie and tugging on it, pulling it free of the knot. He catches John’s eyes and starts to unbutton his shirt, tugging it out of his trousers and letting it hang at his waist, open and exposing his stomach. His hands move to his belt next and he undoes the belt buckle, lets the leather slither from his belt loops.

John watches the belt drop to the floor and moves his gaze to Sherman’s fly, watching him unbutton his pants. “I don’t want a _girlfriend_ ,” Ben clarifies, kicking his pants off.

“Didn’t look like it from where I was standing. I think even fucking Mother Theresa had her hand down your pants.” John moves a step in and pushes Ben’s hands out of the way, rubbing his own palm over the hard curve of Ben’s cock through his boxer-briefs. “That where this came from? You hard for her?”

“No.” Ben swallows hard and thrusts into John’s touch. “You know I’m not.”

John takes a step back and grabs the bottle of whiskey, uncapping it and taking a long swallow. He doesn’t look away from Ben, just lets his gaze run over him relentlessly, searching. “Undress.”

“What?”

“Get your clothes off, Sherman. You’re fucking Ivy League material, right? Surely you can follow a simple order.” He takes another pull from the bottle and settles against the arm of one of the huge leather sofas that dominate the room. His ass sinks into the supple leather and he sighs happily, watching as Ben shifts from foot to foot before realizing John’s completely serious.

It takes him even longer, once realization dawns, to start undressing. He looks toward the door, back at John, and then he finally starts taking off his clothes.

John doesn’t say a word until Ben’s completely naked, his clothes draped over the arm of a chair and his body so fucking perfect that John has to just stare for a minute and remind himself – pinch himself – because Ben’s given that gorgeous body over to him.

“On your knees.” Nothing comes out in John’s voice but coolness, an even tone that makes Ben visibly shiver. He sinks down slowly, awkwardly, his gaze on John. There’s worry and some fear in his eyes, but there’s also a goddamned lot of trust, and John knows that. All the feelings from earlier – anxiety, hostility, worry, fear – dissipate in the wake of that look. He’s not about to violate anything that Ben Sherman gives so sparingly. His voice softens and he gives Ben an honest smile. “Christ. Look at you.”

Ben swallows and ducks his head. John can just imagine what Ben was like before he got his regulation haircut. There’s a color in his cheeks that’s nothing to do with embarrassment, even though John’s voice is thick with appreciation. “John.”

“Shh.” John shucks his jacket and shirt quickly, unbuttoning the top two buttons and just pulling the shirt over his head. He walks forward so that his cock is brushing Ben’s mouth again. “Should I tell you what I’m going to do with you, Ben?”

Ben doesn’t make a sound, or if he does, it gets stuck somewhere in the fabric of John’s trousers as Ben mouths his cock through them. His hands slide along John’s thighs and then up to his ass, squeezing it.

“Take that as a yes.” He runs his hand over Ben’s head, cupping his skull and keeping his mouth close, Ben’s hot breath seeping into the fabric. “I’m going to open these pants. Going to open them and slide my dick in your mouth and I’m going to tell you how to suck it. Going to tell you when to go fast, when to go slow. Tell you when to suck harder and when to stop. Going to let you get me good and hard and wet.”

This time Ben does make a noise and it sparks along John’s spine and deep in his balls. Everything tightens and he pulls his hips back, leaving Ben gasping in the sudden space between them.

“And then-” John takes a step back so that Ben can’t touch him anymore and walks around him, squatting down so he can run his fingers over Ben’s shoulders and down his arms. “Then I’m going to move behind you just like this. I’m going to lean in and I’m going to lick and suck and bite your neck. Here.” John touches Ben lightly just below his ear then again a little lower. “And here.” He does it again, this time at the juncture of Ben’s neck and shoulder. “And here.”

Ben shudders and tilts his head to the side to give John better access. John’s finger barely tease his skin and he smiles as Ben’s hands fist at his sides, as Ben fights for control. He shifts slightly, knees digging into the plush carpet as John moves his fingers to the other side of Ben’s neck.

“I’ll leave a mark here. You want me to mark you, Ben?”

Ben huffs out a breath and he sways back toward John, shoulders briefly making contact with John’s chest before he forces himself back upright though his head stays bowed forward.

John doesn’t let himself think about Ben’s easy subservience, about the way he bends his neck so willingly. “Or should I do it here?” John touches the nape of Ben’s neck then leans in, scraping his teeth lightly across the skin, bringing goose bumps up all over Ben’s body. “Hmm?”

Ben moans softly, burying the sound by pressing his lips close together. John chuckles low and soft, breath fanning over Ben’s neck.

“And then I’m going to move lower.” He ghosts a breath down Ben’s spine and then follows it with the barest touch of his fingers. “And lower.” He follows the line of Ben’s back to the curve of his ass and then slips his fingers along the cleft. “Should I use my fingers? Or should I use my tongue?”

“B-both.” Ben’s voice is ragged, like it’s been pulled out of him against his will. “Both. Fuck.”

“Spread you open with my fingers?” John’s voice is gravelly as his fingers trace up and down the crack of Ben’s ass. “Fuck you nice and slow with them? How many do you think you can take? Three? Four? Should I bury my fist inside you and spread out my fingers until you’re nothing but one coiled muscle, whimpering and begging? So fucking desperate to come that you’re leaking, coming all on your own just from my hand deep inside you, fingers fanned so you’re spread as far as that hot, tight ass can go?”

“F-fuck.” Ben’s head falls forward and he reaches out, desperate for something to hold onto to remain upright. John’s free hand catches his hip and holds him, his mouth grazing over Ben’s shoulder again. “Fuck, John. Please. _Please_.”

“Gonna stop before you come though. Going to stop and just let you lie there and not do a goddamned thing until your heart slows down and the ache is quiet, and then,” he growls the words against Ben’s ear. “And then I’m going to get you on your back, slide down and hook your legs over my arms, over my shoulders and I’m going to fuck that spread, hot, swollen asshole with my tongue. I’m going to press it past that tight muscle and fuck you deep and hard. I’m going to curl my tongue inside you and get all the places my hand didn’t reach you. I’m going to lick and suck and spit and make you beg for more. Going to hold your wrists just like before and watch you arch up away from me and I’m going to follow you up, burying my tongue inside you until you’re slick and wet enough that my dick would slide right in.”

“Now. Fuck.” Ben presses back against him and rocks, ass rubbing against John’s hard cock. “C’mon. Now. Please. Now. Fuck.”

“And then I’ll stop.”

“No.” Ben growls. “Don’t fucking stop.”

“Just tease you a little, let you calm down again. Wait until you’re not on the edge and then I’ll lube up your hole, knowing how sore and swollen it’ll be, thrusting and fucking and getting you so spread for me. And then – _then_ I’ll fuck you. I’ll thrust my dick so deep inside you, you’ll fucking taste me on your tongue. I’ll fuck you with your legs over my shoulders so I can go so deep I’ll come all over you tonsils. I’ll fuck you so hard, Ben. Fuck that tight, sweet, hot ass of yours six ways to Sunday and never let you come. Never let you fall over the edge. I’ll make you wait and want and beg and leak all over yourself, but I won’t let you come.”

Ben thrusts back harder, a low whine deep in his throat. “Touch me, god damn it.”

“Is that how you ask, Ben?” John laughs. “You bring me to this party and you flirt with girls in front of me and then you make demands? Telling me what to do? How to touch you?” John moves away from him, getting to his feet unsteadily, all the blood in his body concentrated in his cock. “I don’t think so.”

“I…J-Jo-…” Ben looks up at him, eyes wide and pupils blown, beyond curiosity and into despair. “What…?”

“I think that it’s time to go home.” John slowly pulls his clothes back together, dressing carefully as he watches Ben’s brain try to catch up with the moment. There’s a brief flash of anger and possibly the shine of frustrated tears in his eyes before he gets to his feet, grabbing onto the couch and holding it in a death grip.

“You cocksucker.”

“Not tonight, dear.” John grins ruthlessly and comes over, leaning in close enough to taste Ben’s breath. “I have a headache.”

“I’m going to…”

“You’re not going to do anything,” John snaps and it brings Sherman’s eyes instantly into focus. “We’re going to go home and you’re going to suffer with that hard cock of yours until I decide to put you out of your misery. We’re going to get home, and I’m going to make you watch me as I straddle your thighs and jack myself off and come all over your hard stomach and cock. You’re going to beg for it and plead for it and if you’re really good, I might let you get off before the night is through.”

“ _Might_?” Ben’s voice is strained up an octave, close to the breaking point.

“Yeah. If I’m feeling generous. Otherwise your ride in the squad car tomorrow is going to be the most painful thing you’ve ever experienced.” He grins again. “And if you think I’m going to go easy on you because you’ve got a woody the size of the fucking Sears Tower, you’ve got another think coming.”

“I…” Sherman catches his breath as he tries to work his boxer-briefs on. “I fucking _hate_ you.”

John slaps Ben on the ass and heads for the door. “You won’t when I finally let you come.”  



End file.
